


I'm Not Really A Waitress

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU Nine, an AU Rose. Is anything really what it seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Really A Waitress

**Author's Note:**

> I have never done anything this AU ever, and I’m a little nervous. It's also a little dark and gritty. This is my entry for Challenge 18 at [](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/profile)[then_theres_us](http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/), in which all entries must be AU. The prompts are another batch of marvelous pictures, and I'm truly astounded at some of the fics over there. If you do nothing else today, GO READ THEM ALL. Beta'd by [](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/profile)[anepidemic](http://anepidemic.livejournal.com/). Thank you for you're ecouragement and advice.

It's a Thursday evening and the diner is expectedly sparse, save for a couple of regulars and an old man on the stool on the end, muttering to himself over cherry pie that he’s just passing through. The corner booth sits cluttered with spent dishes, lonely in the neon haze of the open sign.

Beyond the row of maroon vinyl seats and flecked formica table tops, a few cars roll by with a rush of air and the soggy press of rubber to wet asphalt. The traffic light changes in flashes of yellow, red and green, bodies move between lines and then a shrill horn sounds. Rose looks up from stacking the dishes, slipping the meager gratuity into the pocket of her apron. A taxi pushes into the crosswalk and then around the corner, paying no mind to any notion of right of way.

The city is always moving, always impatient. It’s something that still makes her uncomfortable.

The door swings open and shut to the sharp rattle of an aspirant silver bell. Rose turns to find a tall man in a long black coat smoothing the rain from his neatly combed hair. After a moment, he smiles and shrugs off the coat, laying it carefully across two stools before sliding into one in the center of the counter.

She looks him over while he stares blandly at the menu. His dark suit is expensive and quite attractive, but it seems as out of place on him as he is in a place like this. She doesn’t know why, but she imagines he’d be more at home in jeans and a leather jacket.

“So what’s good here?” he asks, and she looks at him surprised. “What?”

She smiles at his pleasantly unexpected accent. “Nothing, I just – you’re not from around here.”

“Neither are you,” he grins. He folds the menu closed and slips it back into place between the ketchup bottle and a pile of napkins. “But if you must know, I live on the Upper East Side, so that sort of makes me from ‘round here. For now.”

She ignores the last part gives him a coy look. “You sound like you’re from the north.”

“Lots of places have a north,” he chuckles.

Leaning her elbows on the counter, she laughs and flashes him her cheekiest grin, tongue catching on the edge of her teeth. Her lips are too pink, her mascara too heavy for such a pretty face. He’s curious if she’s hiding herself or trying to be someone else, and decides maybe it’s a little of both.

He would know.

He eats and she talks, her hand running a rag back and forth over the same stretch of countertop, as she tells him of her mother back in London and the boyfriend who left her for Boston. He calls her by name and she seems surprised until he smirks and points to her name tag.

She’s ambling from topic to topic, but he’s actually listening and laughing where he’s supposed to, focused on her like he really sees _her_ and not just a waitress. There’s a trace of something in the cool blue of his eyes that’s tired and lonely, making her wonder what wore him down first; the job, a woman or the world.

It’s always one of those.

She pops into the kitchen for a moment, but when she returns the stool is empty and a few bills are left folded under his plate.

She never got his name.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s back the following night, ten minutes before closing, but she’s happy to stay late just for the chance to talk to him again. They share a basket of chips and she makes banana milkshakes in the avocado green blender that’s probably been there since 1974. He’s a little strange, but she likes the company and the fact that someone else can’t stand to call them _fries_.

When she finally remembers to ask his name and what he does for a living, he answers her with a business card, the name of a French bank on the back. After a cursory glance, she raises an eyebrow and twirls the card between two fingers, joking that no one is actually named John Smith.

He just shrugs and pops another chip in his mouth.

She’s doing all the talking again, which is just fine by him since it keeps her from asking too many questions. There are things about his life she can’t know, that no one can know, words and deeds he carries like stones in his pockets, weighing him down with every step.

But this gives him the chance to look at her without feeling like a voyeur. She looks so young, leaning on one elbow and bending the straw down to her glossed lips. Her accent is a little piece of home, but she snaps her gum like a Staten Island girl. It’s one more thing about her that he can’t quite put his finger on. He feels like she should be something greater than this, that there is more to her than bleached hair and grease spatters.

There are stars in her eyes the sky didn’t put there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rose looks for John again the next evening, but it’s the same traffic of cab drivers, students and the weary. The old man is back, in the same place as before, passing through over a piece of blueberry this time. She waits half an hour passed closing time, but he never shows. She locks the door, turns to leave, and there he is, tipped against the lamp post with crossed arms and a smile.

They go for coffee and conversation, which somehow becomes a pint and dirty jokes.

He calls a cab for her before they leave, stumbling out of the pub arm in arm and laughing about something only they have the pleasure of not remembering. Her face tilts up against his shoulder, hair tickling his chin, and he’s sure they look like quite the pair. He’s still in his suit, sans tie and jacket, and she’s still in her pale pink uniform, name tag pinned above her heart.

She trips over her own two feet and falls with her back against the painted white brick, giggling and tugging him with her. His hands brace on either side of her head and suddenly the gravity of her lips is inevitable. He tastes like scotch and gunpowder, heady and flammable, and she thinks it’s quite curious for a man of business to have such a dangerous flavor.

She seems impossibly soft against him, her mouth parting beneath his with only the slightest press of his tongue. His hands circle her waist and crawl up her spine. He imagines her sitting on the diner counter in nothing but her apron, his fingers pulling its strings loose and baring her smooth skin.

Around them the city carries on in a cacophony of lights and concrete and exhaust, oblivious to the couple standing on a street corner at two in the morning.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s after midnight on Wednesday and the taxi smells like cigarettes and subterfuge. There’s an odd stain on the floor in the backseat, but it’s the best he can do on short notice. He’s checking his mobile for a fifth time, when she comes around the corner, walking briskly and holding her shoulder bag close.

He slouches low in the driver’s seat, hoping she hasn’t seen him. He can’t afford to mess this up when it’s taken him so long to get this close. She glances in his direction, and then crosses the street without a second look.

He’s doesn’t have time to be disappointed, watching intently as a man steps out of the building for a smoke. The car door opens with a soft ker-thunk and he slips out into the shadows, hand already reaching for his gun.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rose clips two more orders to the wheel and gives it a spin, shouting to the line cooks in the back. One of them hollers back in a bad imitation of the heavy cockney tone that comes out when she’s frustrated. It’s almost noon, and the belligerent construction workers at the end of the counter demanding coffee refills remind her why she hates this time of the day.

She glares and turns around, setting down a blue plate special a little rougher than intended. Gravy drips over the edge and pools thickly on the counter.

“Whoa!” a familiar voice exclaims. “I get that you’re havin’ a rough day but that’s no reason to abuse my lunch.”

She beams at John and swipes over the gravy stain with a serviette. “Sorry. It’s a bit –” She stops and looks around, blowing a puff of air through the hair falling in her eyes.

“Crazy?” He supplies, reaching out to sweep the errant lock behind her ear.

She nods and leans into his touch for just a moment, until a shout comes from the kitchen and she’s forced back to the reality of the midday chaos.

His eyes follow her as she flows around the diner, seamlessly dodging customers with a full tray on her shoulder, trying to catch her attention. She gives him a plaintive look as she shoves the cash drawer shut with her hip, a carafe of coffee in one hand and a slice of apple pie in the other.

He’s about to use paying his bill as an excuse to get a minute with her, when his mobile rings. A quick glance at the number, and he’s leaving money under the plate again and slipping out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her feet ache, she’s out of headshots, and with any luck she’ll also need a new outfit for tomorrow. What money she will use for either one remains a mystery.

She leans against the window frame of her tiny, one room flat, swirling five dollar wine in a juice glass, and watching the lines of headlights on the bridge stop and start with the frustration of the evening rush. The city is unforgiving to be sure, and some days it makes her second guess herself. She came here two years ago with a small duffle bag on her shoulder and 200 pounds in her pocket.

She was going to be an actress or maybe a singer, on Broadway not in Hollywood, because it’s classic and timeless and there’s still an honesty to theatre, her named ringed in a cavalcade of lights on the marquee.

They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

So far she’s just a survivor.

With a sigh, she swallows the last of the wine, sets the glass on the sill, and shuffles to the bed. She’s been wondering why John left so abruptly. The kiss won’t leave her mind, and she thought maybe he’d been preoccupied in the same way when he stopped for lunch. She’s certain she didn’t imagine the look in his eyes and the gentle way he swept her hair back.

He seems to be a very important, if secretive, man and what interest he could possibly have in her is beyond her comprehension. Perhaps if she was already known, living some small piece of her dream, instead of a lowly south side waitress, it might seem more reasonable.

It surprises her how little she really knows about him, but she’s falling for him easily, unconcerned about the possible danger. Whatever game they are playing feels like the most exciting adventure she’s had since she walked into the living room of her mother’s flat with a plane ticket in one hand and the entire world’s determination in the other.

She settles on the side of the bed, eyes trailing up the right side of her mirror. Tucked under the edge of the frame is a crisp, white business card with a name that might be a lie, yet there’s still a smile for the fond memory.

That night she dreams of cool blue eyes gazing down at her, and strong hands holding her thighs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He leans over the bathroom sink in a cheap motel room by the airport, trying not to look at the crust of lime and rust stains around the drain. The buzzing of the barber shears and the flat tones of the evening news are a white noise in his mind. Slowly, he drags the clippers over his head, watching the dark clumps fall away. He straightens and runs a hand over his newly shorn hair, frowning. It makes his ears stand out.

The water is only luke warm, but he doesn’t care. Like everything else in his life, it’s temporary. His head thumps against the back of the narrow shower as he bites his lip to keep from saying her name.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The lobby of the hotel is posh and busy with self importance. He stands at the end of the reception desk with a clipboard in his hands, eyes shifting between the street entrance and the double doors leading to the parking ramp. The drab suit and the tag clipped to his lapel mark him as an employee, easily ignored.

He almost doesn’t recognize Rose when she spins through the revolving door, wearing a smart blue blouse and black pencil skirt. She balances a large portfolio under her left arm and a knock off designer purse on her shoulder. She wobbles forward, shifting her weight on precarious heels, and for a moment he thinks she might topple over completely.

She looks in his direction, but again her eyes pass over him, searching the lobby for someone else. Her hand shoots up, waving to a young man sitting at the edge of the lounge, and the case falls to the floor, scattering pictures over the marble.

He’s about to rush over and help, when he eyes a familiar black sedan pulling into the parking garage. The mobile in his breast pocket chirps quietly. He flips it open and listens.

“ _Doctor_ ,” the robotic voice says.

“Yes,” he replies quickly. Then he snaps the phone closed and heads for the lift, his eyes never straying from his target.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m telling you these shots are fantastic Rosie. Trust me!”

Rose braces her hand on the wall and slips off her heels. “You really think so Jack?”

Jack winks. “I know so.”

She laughs and starts undoing the buttons on her blouse, intent on enjoying all the amenities of the room. Laying the blue silk carefully on the bed, she unzips her skirt and lets it fall to the floor.

“I thought I’d try out the whirlpool before I leave.”

Jack glances up from where he sits cross legged on the plush carpet, an array of photos spread around him. He gives her a quick once over and grins. “Go right ahead, I booked it for the whole day.”

“Jack!” she exclaims, hands on her hips and doing her best to look angry while standing in a delicate bra and panty set.

He just shrugs. “What? I thought we could both stand to see how the other half live for a little while.” Her hands drop to her sides but she’s still frowning. “You go have a good time in the tub. I’ll finish picking out the best ones and join you in a few minutes.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles, unable to contain her amusement and having such fabulous accommodations, even for a short while. “I think I will.”

With that she does a perfect pirouette and hurries off to the comfort of the warm, swirling water.

After a brief thought, Jack calls out to her. “Just don’t have too much fun until I get there!”

Her only response is the dull thud of the door shutting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Saturday night he finds himself a bar that’s masquerading as a trendy jazz club, hidden away in the basement of an old red brick building. The walls on either side of the entrance are peeling, but he can still see the faux painted columns and heavy velvet curtain. The arrow is a nice cheesy touch, in case there was any confusion that one was supposed to go down the stairs to get in.

It’s better than the places he usually chooses when he’s alone, where nobody knows your name and the bartender lives by a code of not asking too many questions. Here, there’s a slow trickle of neighborhood regulars mixed with curious, fashionable couples. There’s even a small stage, a piano and a legitimate top shelf.

Money hits the bar and four words later a drink appears in his hand. The amber liquid is smooth in his mouth, warming his throat on the way down, leaving the slightest touch of honey on his tongue. He’s here to forget, but it reminds him of her anyway.

He picks a table in the corner, to the left of the door, and sits with his back to the exposed brick, so he can watch the room. He doesn’t expect to see anyone he knows, but it’s better to be safe than dead.

The room is full and he’s on his third drink when she saunters across the stage.

Her red dress glides over her skin, worth every penny she saved to buy it. She can’t breathe and she’s afraid of what might come out of her mouth if she opens it. Then the music starts and the room fades away around her.

To say he’s amazed would be an understatement. Her voice is fuller, richer than he would have ever imagined, and there’s no trace of a blushing starlet in the way she works the crowd. He’s sure she can’t see him through the glare of the stage lights, but it feels like every word is meant just for him. The melody wanders through the room and slips into his mind, like a thread tying him to her and stitching up the wounds in his heart.

At the end of the song he pretends to be heading for the restroom, but slips into the back hallway instead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rose is breathless when she steps off the stage, riding high on a glass of good wine and real applause. She pushes open the door to what passes for a dressing room in a place like this, not noticing the figure in the far corner.

Standing in front of the small dressing table, she looks at her reflection, ringed in the lights surrounding the mirror, and finally feels like more than a girl who waits tables and lives off of eighty-seven cent tips.

Tonight, she’s a star.

“Well that was a pleasant surprise.”

Startled, she whirls around wide eyed. “John!”

He just chuckles, amused at how she’s looking at him, like he just found out her dirty little secret. Maybe he has, and maybe it’s time to give up a few of his own. She might be his new start, once his debt is repaid.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” she asks.

He steps into the light and she can see that he’s traded the suit for jeans and a plain green jumper under a leather jacket. She almost smiles at how right it looks on him.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he admits. “I just wandered around and ended up here.”

She licks her lips unconsciously and moves closer. “The same way you just ended up at my diner one night?”

“Yup.” One more step and he’ll be close enough to touch her, to bend his head and taste the column of her throat like he’s been dying to do.

She smirks and tilts her head to one side. “That all you got to say?” He remains quiet, but moves forward until there’s barely a breath between them, settling his hands on her hips.

“You’re a man of few words and an awful lot of secrets.”

He nods. “Then let me confess a few.”

He drops his lips to her shoulder, just inside the thin strap of her dress. He feels her let out the breath she was holding, relishing the little shiver that ripples through her.

“My name isn’t John Smith,” he says quietly. Before she can respond his tongue travels up the sweet curve of her neck. She arches against him and grips his arms. “And I’m not a banker.”

It’s her turn to laugh, low and throaty. “Or a taxi driver? Or a hotel concierge?”

His mouth falls open in astonishment.

She pushes up on her toes, letting her breasts rub against his chest, until her lips are level with his ear. “I have another secret.”

Then she nips at his earlobe and whispers, “I’m not really a waitress.”


End file.
